


Benedicite

by pocketwatchangora



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Antonio the Beautiful Italian Model, Art, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Attraction, Awkward Benedict Bridgerton, Benedict Bridgerton & Genevieve Delacroix, Benedict Bridgerton's facial expressions, Benedict doing his best, Benedict is adorable, Bi-Curiosity, Bisexual Benedict Bridgerton, Bottom Benedict Bridgerton, Classic gentry, Comfort, Creampie, Cunningly disguising homosexuality as carelessness, Drinking to Cope, Dyslexia, Fear, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Friends With Benefits, Friends and Lovers, Gay Panic, Genevieve Delacroix is a Good Friend, Gentle Sex, Georgian lube, Henry Granville is a Good Friend, Henry Granville is a great top, Henry Granville would be in Slytherin, I did my best to learn the history, Italy in 1813 probably wasn't a great place, Lord Wetherby's name is Andrew, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, Nude Modeling, Polyamory, Self Confidence Issues, Sensuality, Sexy drawing, Sketches, Supportive Genevieve, Top Henry Granville, Very indepth drawing description, Wine, bi panic, heavy handed metaphors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29075892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketwatchangora/pseuds/pocketwatchangora
Summary: Benedict goes to another of Henry's art clubs, and gets a large and pleasant surprise, even if it sets off his bi panic.I see Benedict and Genevieve as casual friends with benefits, and she would 100% support his exploration.
Relationships: Benedict Bridgerton/Genevieve Delacroix, Benedict Bridgerton/Henry Granville, Benedict Bridgerton/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 131





	1. Clever

**Author's Note:**

> Today, I will be projecting dyslexia and ADHD onto Benedict Bridgerton. Also, he is bisexual and no-one can tell me otherwise, he just needs some more opportunities. 
> 
> Get ready for random subject changes, entirely understandable distractions and gay smut at some point in the future. Love me some bi bottom Benny.

Benedict Bridgerton had never been considered a clever boy (his eloquence was not important, apparently), nor a particularly patient one. When faced with arithmetic, he would not (could not) stay in his seat. When forced to read, he would make up stories in his head instead of ingesting the ones formed by the words before him. 

This was partly because he found the stuffy prose of old men very dull, and partly (mostly) because the blasted letters moved and twitched on the page before him, making them rather difficult to round up and understand. 

He had never told any of his school masters or governesses this, because he assumed it was the same for everyone and he simply wasn't fast enough to follow the blighters. It was rather like watching a horse race, like some of the letters were printed on the horse's side and he was sitting on the track edge, unable to focus on the whoosh of black on white as the creatures beat their furious hooves past him. He could sometimes see words in sips, gasps, before they decided to stop engulfing him and galloped merrily away. He hated reading.

What was odd, he'd noticed this rather early in his young life, was that art had an entirely different way about it. Nothing moved when he looked at art. It held perfectly still, like a lady-in-waiting (a lady who was waiting), and allowed him to study each brush stroke in detail, as well as seeing the entire thing as a whole. He loved that he could decide which paintings he liked and which he didn't, loved deciding what it was that he enjoyed or disliked about each work, before he had the luxury of seeing it at his own pace. Art was a respite from him, an eagerly gulped but equally savoured refreshment after the drying confines of the written word.

The _act_ of drawing, however, presented its own challenges, do not be dissuaded on that front. The lines in his head and the lines his charcoal drew were seldom the same, and he cursed his own muscles for wanting to jerk him out of his seat, to scribble viciously over the flesh-like paper so his elbow would stop twitching. It was more frustrating than reading because he wanted to draw, he wanted the picture before him to become the picture in his head. His governess told him to practice if he enjoyed it, and he did.

As he grew older, Benedict found matters improved. Reading was eased somewhat, though paper of a cream or colourful stock still caused that same intangible speed he could not keep up with, but with newsprint and printed cards on white stationary, the reins were much easier to grip and pull at. Slow down, he'd tell them, and usually they would. Cursive still eluded him, but it was easy and natural enough to foist such pieces of script off on female friends, mothers or sisters to be read aloud.

His drawing was improving, he thought with a hesitant pride. He could draw hands which, he was told, were the most difficult things to draw, and he rather liked drawing Madame Delacroix's bare breast when they were at ease together.

"You always draw women's bodies." She noticed one evening, when she was carefully bejeweling a headband for one of the ton's ladies. "But only men's hands." He looked over the page he was working on and made a considering face. Hands were quite the only part of a man, other than their heads, one ever saw. He couldn't very well draw his own body without standing, sillily, before a looking-glass.

"You are correct." He said, unsure what this meant or, indeed, if it meant anything at all. "I suppose they are simply more satisfying..." He mumbled, not realising he had spoken aloud until she giggled. 

"I completely agree." She said. 

He sat on her bed, in just his shirt and small clothes, and considered what it would be like to draw the male form. The female form, with all its pleasing curves and softness, was enjoyable to enshrine, erotic even. But so were the hard lines of knuckles and fingernails, the palm undulating subtly into the solid crook of a thumb. 

He looked up from his thoughts to see her smiling at him, delicate arm resting on the back of her swing chair, her black curls cascading down her robed back. "You will pay Granville another call, _oui_? He has a range of models for his art club - it will improve your... creative scope." She said, smiling prettily and with a hint of teasing. He gave her his own lopsided smirk and nodded, tapping his pencil against the page.

"I believe I shall." He said.

*

"Bridgerton!" Henry cried with a grin upon opening the door. Benedict smiled brightly, though his heart seemed intent on beating itself out of his chest.

He had received a note from Sir Granville at the club, fortuitously inviting him to the art club for another drawing session. Naturally, Benedict had accepted and now stood, wearing his light, informal summer wardrobe which he hoped was appropriate. No jacket, just a waistcoat in his favoured yellow (the Featheringtons gave the colour excessive exposure, in his opinion), a loose white shirt and wool breeches he didn't mind ruining with sketch soot. 

Henry welcomed him warmly, as always, taking his coat and smiling appraisingly at his long slender frame. He then escorted the younger man personally into the studio and pressed a glass of wine into his hands. Benedict did not thank him, entirely too distracted by the evening's life model. 

A tall man with olive skin stood in the centre of the room, thickly muscled and poised in utter comfort within his imposing frame. He reminded Benedict, rather tantalisingly, of the dark-skinned boxer with whom the Duke of Hastings, his good brother, seemed so close. They had stood side-by-side at the duel, the man, whose name was William Mondrich if he remembered correctly, selecting which of their father's pistols their respective combatants would use. What a ridiculous affair that had been, even if it had worked out in the end. Mr. Mondrich though, thickly bearded and incredibly muscular, had loomed over Benedict with not even a whiff of malice; just fear for his friend. Terribly ridiculous affair (hair).

The model's hair was long and black, his strong jaw both stubbled and chiseled. 

"My word, Granville… are we to sketch a Greek god tonight…?" Benedict asked, rather breathless. Was it hot in here? He didn't remember this waistcoat being so small, perhaps he has been indulging in Cook's gooseberry pie a touch too often of late, though it was his ribs that seemed to be the problem. 

"Italian, I believe." Henry corrected him with a chuckle and a rub over his back that almost made Benedict choke. His face felt distinctly flushed; was the wine having such an effect already? "Take a seat, my friend, we are just about to start." He said, gesturing to a free spot _directly_ in front of the raven-haired Roman Adonis. Well, Adonis probably was raven-haired, wasn't he? Greeks often are. Did they have an equivalent in Rome?

He went over to the easel, eager to sit down and hide behind the board, to which a sheaf of papers were pinned, so he could compose himself. He placed the wine glass on the table set up beside him, and made quick work of his waistcoat buttons, glad for the cooler air on his stomach and chest. He peeked out from behind his board, nibbling his lower lip in a way he rarely did. 

The model was looking to the side, the long column of his neck exposed and rigid with tendons that led down to the firm plains of his expansive chest. Benedict let out a small gasp and grabbed his glass, taking a falteringly slow sip, lest the finely aged burgundy burst forth from his nose.

"If everyone is ready, we can begin." Henry called to the group, amiably. "As usual, I will be asking our model, tonight's wonderful subject is Antonio," to this, the beautiful man smiled and gave a small, endearing wave before settling back into his previous pose, a murmur of appreciation from the gathered artisans. Benedict glanced around the two easels flanking his and saw they had already been adorned with several miniatures of the stunning example of male perfection. These were quickly replaced with fresh sheets, ready for the structured portion of the evening, "to change his stance at different increments. This will be a twenty minute sketch," Benedict followed Henry's blithe check of his very fine pocket watch, "using this standing pose. Please, begin." A smile and look specifically focussed on Benedict that caused another hasty sip of wine.

He put his glass down and took a very deep breath, picking up his charcoal pencil and chancing another peep around his awaiting paper.

Antonio, the new Roman version of the hellenistic Adonis, was breathing slowly as he stood still for the group of strangers. His head resting against his shoulder somewhat, his hair was a draping curtain that did nothing to cover his bulging strength. Benedict heard himself swallow hard and took another gulp of wine, the thirst not at all feigned; every drop of moisture seemed to leave his body as his eyes traveled downwards. 

The man's chest, bookended by dark nipples, hard and bunched, was as wide and rippled as that of a particularly fetching stallion. His waist, trim and dwarfed by the sheer width of his shoulders, would be the envy of any maid or laundress with a washboard. Every inch of the man was cut muscle, sculptured and hardened by grueling exercise. 

Well… perhaps not every inch.

How strange that the moisture, that which Benedict was previously robbed of, should suddenly return at choking speed, flooding his mouth so quickly his tonsils ached. 

The man's cock, soft and heavy against his planted left thigh, was enormously large in both girth and length. Having only his own to compare it to since he was a child, even then the comparison was only other children, Benedict could admit to feeling rather envious, though he'd never felt so before (his lady friends had never mentioned anything amiss), and unusually fascinated. He found himself wondering how it must look when at 'full mast', as was the coy turn of phrase, tumescent and throbbing. Would it curve upwards, toward heaven, as his own did? Or downwards, towards one of the many the toasty circles Benedict was no doubt heading for, simply from these thoughts alone. 

It was not the first time he had considered other men's cocks, but it was usually in the same way of considering another man's face, or his clothes. Entirely curious, entirely non-damning. Good lord, but it _was_ hot. In the room. The large draughty studio was very warm indeed. Benedict removed his waistcoat and placed it, neatly folded, behind himself on the chair. He wouldn't want it to get dirty, after all.

He looked up, finally, and forced his eyes to focus past Antonio. Henry was making his rounds already, _confound_ it, perusing each guest's progress and offering small tidbits of advice wherever he could not resist. 

Everyone was very affable in their thanks, he was the expert after all. Quickly, not wishing to seem slow, just as he always had been growing up, Benedict sketched out the _stunning_ model's overall shape before detailing some of his particularly interesting parts. His neck, his jaw, his nipples. A conspicuously blank space where his cock hung between two meaty thighs. 

He was shading the slightly bent knee when he felt Henry's unmistakable presence at his back, a hand placed affectionately on his shoulder.

"This is coming along very nicely." His friend said, a smile in his voice. Benedict turned to look up at him, smirking as he did when he felt too exposed. "Do try to get _everything_ in." Henry added before moving away, teasing amusement so damnably obvious. He'd seated Benedict here on purpose, of course he had.

Shyly, one eye analysed the model's proud member while his hand sketched an approximation. On the page, it looked laughably disproportionate but, measuring a stick held at arm's length, it was entirely to scale.

When the twenty minutes were over, the increasingly fidget-prone Benedict eagerly stood up and moved around to look at the other drawings, as Henry encouraged them to do. The other sketches varied in quality and likeness, and the different angles of the same (gorgeous) man made for quite different images, but many were far superior to Benedict's own attempt.

When he returned to his own area, he felt a twist in his stomach he could not define, somewhere between shame and elation, and set his first sketch aside. The blank page before him was bafflingly disappointing, though this was quickly rectified when Antonio moved into his second pose, a five minute study, and raised his arms to flex his frankly ridiculous biceps. 

Benedict was, as his friend Genevieve would say in her charming accent, fucked.  
  



	2. Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict drinks too much and enjoys the last sketch of the evening.
> 
> Slight racism against Europeans.

Benedict Bridgerton was drunk. He spent most of the evening staring, wide-eyed at the naked man in the centre of the room and gulping down burgundy in panic. 

By the time the model was given a short break to stretch and relax for the eighth time, Benedict's sketches had become complete tripe and his head was aching. Henry brushed past him with a frown at his latest work, Antonio the Roman Adonis had been sitting for this one but it rather looked like he was floating away, the lines a mess of impatient jabs and wayward scribbles. 

"Are you quite alright, Bridgerton?" Henry asked with a chuckle, hand on his shoulder. Benedict gave a groan of discomfort.

"Rather too much wine, I'm afraid. Perhaps I should go-" 

"Nonsense, we encourage imbibing and drawing, it loosens one up. Let me get you some water." He said amiably, gliding off again. How can a man be so graceful in every way? Benedict's bleary gaze moved from watching Henry back to Antonio, who he was startled to fine was staring at him. 

The beautiful man smiled slightly at him, and Benedict forced his own well practiced I-am-incredibly-uncomfortable grin, reaching for his cup which was empty. He sighed, rubbing at his temple, his mouth tasted revolting, and he cursed Genevieve for encouraging him. 

Henry returned with a goblet of fresh, cool water and Benedict drank it like a man dying of thirst gratefully. He also gave him, the second eldest son of the late Viscount and the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, a small piece of cake.

"One pose left and then we will call it a night." The older man promised softly, a suspicious amount of amusement in his voice, patting his shoulder. Benedict nodded, wishing his head would stop spinning. He ate his cake like a sulking child as Henry addressed the class as a whole, telling them the last one would be an expression of sensuality. 

_ Oh, you godless bastard…  _

Henry smiled at Antonio, who nodded, and removed the robe he had been wearing to reveal his hard cock, standing to attention. He lay back on the chaise lounge that Benedict hadn't noticed before and lifted an arm behind his head, looking for all the world like a man awaiting his lover. Benedict almost choked on a particularly large piece of walnut and gulped his water, attracting a look of surprise from his easel neighbour but otherwise going unnoticed. Everyone was obviously very interested in capturing the likeness. Then he spotted Henry grinned over at him, proud as can be of his own cunning. 

Determined not to make even more of a fool of himself, Benedict forced his shaking hand to cooperate and picked up his favoured charcoal, taking in the reclining god before him. The rotation system that ensured everyone was able to draw the model at different angles throughout the evening meant he was almost where they had started, angled slightly to the fumbling Bridgerton's right but otherwise directly before him. In all of his glory.

Benedict turned his drawing board to the side, so it was landscape rather than portrait, giving him a full view without having to move; just flick his eyes up… and then down as he plotted out the proportions lightly. 

This time, to show Henry that Benedict Bridgerton was no coward, he started with the cock. Staring at it, however, made him lose his nerve, and concentration. Half of him wished the session would end without having to endure the full hour Henry had dedicated to this last exercise. The stronger half of him, however, did not want the other artists to visit his easel and find only a very large and very detailed phallus sticking up, self-importantly, in the middle of his page. 

He'd rather choke on a. Walnut.

He cleared his throat and began shading in those massive thighs, the knees and long shins, calf muscles swollen, the long elegant feet hanging languidly off the edge. He made his way back up to the hips, adding shaded weight as the powerful legs sank into the chaise he merely alluded to in a couple of vague lines. Then Antonio's meaty buttocks, pressed upwards, apart, by his sitting, the trim waist and those laundry-worthy abdominal muscles, the curve of his rib cage where he was propped up. His chest, dark nipples and corded throat, more relaxed now from the angle. 

The arm over one side, fingers brushing the floor like an exhausted Adam, the other crooked against the back of the  _ méridiennes _ , the elbow sharp against the padding, requiring a thicker value, the hand disappearing into black hair, more like water than the spirals surrounding the  _ very _ well maintained erection. Every now and then, Antonio would give himself a couple of slow tugs, keeping the flag flying. Benedict pretended not to watch every single time.

When he reached the face, finally, he was stunned to find the eyes, almond shaped and dark, fixed on him yet again. Instantly, his chest felt tight and hot, his face flushing incredibly obviously, of course. He looked down again, trying to stay immersed in the time-negating act of drawing, but every time he looked up to check a feature, he was looking into those memorising eyes. Then those eyes were on the paper too, staring back at him like his very own, very masculine, Mona Lisa. 

He went in with his small stick of white chalk, adding details to the small areas that caught the light, like the tip of the nose, the hair, the lips, eyes, the knuckles, the...  _ other _ tip. He felt like he had been drawing for hours, expecting to look around to find the room completely empty, just himself and Antonio remaining, when Henry called for time up. Benedict looked up, dazed, and saw that the room was still full, and Antonio was moving slowly, perhaps a little stiff from holding so still. Benedict quashed the notion of offering to massage his shoulders, just to feel the solid shelf of muscle against his skin, under his fingertips.

As always, he rose and followed the others clockwise to view the rest of the pieces. A few were unfinished, and the one on the other side of the room was mostly the back of the chaise, which felt rather unfair but the piece was wonderfully realised; the absence of flesh making what was there even more sensuous. 

He looked up when he heard a gasp and saw several people crowded around one easel, wondering which one it was. Then he looked again and realised… it was his own. Yes, there was his yellow waistcoat on the chair - he mustn't forget that - and at least half the class was moving to look at it, including Henry and, oh God, Antonio. Wearing his robe again, a silk number that looked too exotic for even Henry to own, the model was grinning down at Benedict's black ash portrayal of him.  _ Him _ . And his  _ manhood _ .

What on earth were they all doing over there? Were they laughing? Had he made some grave or ridiculous error? Did it look like an imbecile child drew it because he was too distracted by the man that he failed to notice how dreadful the drawing was? 

Gulping down his panic, Benedict ducked his head and moved around the rest of the works slowly, taking in the other angles with hardly any feeling at all as he pretended he couldn't hear the whispers and, yes,  _ giggles _ from where his own shameful attempt stood. The women were fanning themselves as if there was an unpleasant smell lingering around the area.

Finally, he completed his circuit and smiled, questioning and bewildered, at Henry. The professional artist, artist to the  _ Queen _ , was staring at his drawing with a deeply thoughtful expression on his face. Antonio offered Benedict an extremely cryptic smile and went off to look at the other drawings only himself. 

"Are you regretting your insistence on making me stay?" Benedict asked his friend tentatively, a self-deprecating smile on his face to hide the anxiety rattling his bones. Henry looked up with a start, so consumed by Benedict's undoubtedly abominable drawing to notice its foul architect. He couldn't bear to look at it again, it might melt his own eyes. 

Henry gave him a wry smile and shrugged.

"If you mean because you're going to usurp me and, rightfully, steal my job… yes, I rather am." He said, patting Benedict's shoulder. "This is… fantastic, Bridgerton. It's really rather rare I'm speechless but... my God..." 

Benedict frowned at him, utterly confused, and moved to look at his own drawing. It was, actually, breathtaking. Not only was it erotic to an almost vulgar degree, but not quite, it was also beautiful. Every detail, every line and shade and shape was perfect, like the man was truly there on the page. 

"Blood hell…" he muttered, looking down at his own smudged hands as if they might belong to someone else. Henry laughed warmly, clapping him on the back again. 

"If I were your schoolmaster, I would award you with top marks." he said. "Really, really superb." He said, his hand slipping down Benedict's long back to settle on the smallest part, just above his hips. He leaned in close, his cheek brushing the taller man's shoulder, before whispering, "Antonio is a very good man. You should speak to him." Then he went off to look at his other students' work as well. 

Benedict felt his entire body go hot and cold at the same time, his eyes wide and fixed on the smaller, sketched version of Antonio. Carefully, he unstuck his paper, as everyone else seemed to be packing up as well, concentrating on his slightly aching neck and arm instead of the heat between his legs. He rolled the last piece up with the others he'd completed over the evening, and slid them into the leather tube he'd giddily purchased last week. 

"Oh, I wanted another look at it before you put it away." A deep, accented voice rumbled from behind him, sounding genuinely disappointed. Benedict froze, wishing Henry was there to rescue him, and channeled his inner Eloise. He turned to Antonio, who bloody well  _ towered _ over him, and gave a grin and small laugh. 

"You see it every day, I'm sure." He said, belatedly realising he was talking about the man's cock. Antonio chuckled and shrugged, his large hands playing with the belt on his robe. Benedict wanted to touch his arm, feel the cool silk and hot, hard fresh beneath it. 

"Not the way you draw it. You were being… generous, I think?" He asked, apparently uncertain he was using the right word but also self-deprecating.  _ Lord, please, just strike me down.  _

"Not at all." He said, then got flustered and cleared his throat. "I just drew what I saw, like everyone." 

"You see with more than your eyes." Antonio said in a very intense, European way, stepping closer to Benedict. His grandfather, who happened to hate Europeans, had  _ warned _ him of this kind of thing. Panic rose in Benedict like a firework and he tried to take a step back, only to trip over his chair - don't forget the waistcoat - and began to fall like the fool he always knew he was. 

But he didn't fall. He was being held up, suspended by warmth and… and chuckling. He returned to his senses to find himself being kept somewhat standing by Antonio, whose hugely thick arm was wrapped around his waist. The Italian man brought him back up to stand on his own two feet, chuckling about too much wine, and Benedict realised something very important. 

He  _ wanted _ this man. And Henry bloody Granville was behind the whole thing.


	3. Small

Benedict Bridgerton felt small. Not the small of a teacher belittling his indecipherable penmanship, or his brother calling him stupid. No, it was the small of being held, closely, by someone _much_ larger than himself.

It was rare that Benedict felt anything but tall. He was the tallest of his family, with the possible exception of Colin, and he'd grown up surprisingly broad and athletic despite having little interest in playing any type of sport. He enjoyed watching, of course. 

Now, however, he stood in the really rather close presence of this man he had christened the Roman Adonis and almost understood how his sisters, and many other women, must feel. Small, fragile, delicate. Though Eloise would scoff at being described as such. He thought Mr. Mondrich had been large but, by God, Benedict doubted he would place his bets on the seasoned boxer if the man before him entered the ring. 

Antonio's hands, ones that had been _on_ him, were the size of meat platters, his shoulders easily half again of Benedict's own. His barrel of chest rose and fell in huffs of gentle chortling as he looked at Benedict, a slight quirk to his head as he looked down at him. _Down_ at him, good Lord, the man was a giant. 

"Thank you for your assistance, Antonio- I mean, Mr…?"

"Antonio Moretti, originally from _Milano_. At your service, Mr. Bridgerton." He purred, the name of Benedict's old family playing on his tongue. Benedict grinned and nodded, picking up his leather case so there was something between them that wasn't, well, himself. He had managed to adjust his own manhood so, if it grew of its own accord it would do so into his breeches waistband and not into the world for all to see. But, still, it wouldn't be difficult to notice.

"Well, Mr. Moretti," he said, clinging to propriety when everything else had fallen away around him, "thank you for your hard- your work today. You… must do this often, to be so skilled at…" he trailed off, gesturing to where he had seen every inch of the stranger. Antonio chuckled again, a deep, rumbling sound, and shrugged demurely.

"It is one of my most favourite occupations. I am glad to live in a city that is so open to art." He said. Benedict let out a slightly too high-pitched laugh, then realised and cleared his throat.

"Surely Milan was such a place?" He asked, his voice slightly too deep now. Antonio's soft, playful gaze hardened ever so slightly and Benedict gulped, fearing he had offended him. Curse this flapping mouth of his, even Eloise didn't _faux pas_ as often as him.

"Milano is a wonderful city, full of beauty. But there are so many changes, the war, the invaders… Italy has lost the art of the enlightened, it is only fighting now. Bonaparte is playing with my country like…" he gestured with his long fingers, trying to grasp the right thing to say, "like a cat with a wool?" He said with uncertainty. Benedict nodded, eyes wide with fascination as he hung on the man's every word. 

He wasn't entirely sure what the situation in Italy was precisely, no-one in his circles discussed it much. He knew there was a war England was fighting against France, where a rather startling revolution had taken place when he was a very young child, but wasn't really sure why the war was happening nor where it was taking place. A few of his school friends had joined the navy, and he was fairly sure they were fighting the French. But he didn't know why Italy was involved. 

"I'm… very sorry to hear that." He said, genuine when he saw how sad Antonio's eyes were. Then the Italian man took a breath, quashing the pain he had felt for his homeland, and smiled at Benedict. 

"Sir Granville tells me there is a bedroom we can use. Would you like to see it?" Antonio asked with a small tilt of his head and a kind smile. Benedict knew he was naive in many ways, but he knew what that meant. And it made his panic return like a mighty wave over a sea wall. He gripped the tube holding his paper tightly and gave an almost hysterical laugh. 

"I… I am ever so sorry, Mr. Moretti, I really must get home." He spluttered hastily, his whole head pounding with terror and shame for wanting to stay. "It was a pleasu- an _honour_ drawing you this evening, a-and I hope to see you again soon." He said through gritted teeth and a probably quite manic smile, moving past the gorgeous, utterly confused man. Antonio turned to watch him backing away from him, a calm but disappointed look on his lovely face. 

_What are you doing?!_ Benedict's heart screamed at him, urging him to return to the man of his actual dreams - not that he'd ever said anything to anyone about those. His head, meanwhile, was tellig him what a scandal it would be if he indulged even in the smallest dalliance. _Colin's reputation is barely hanging on, and Eloise relies on you to keep hers safe, Hyacinth as well,_ it crowed, sounding very much like Anthony. Oh God- Antonio. Anthony. What a disaster- 

"Bridgerton!" A voice behind him cried just before he crashed into someone, strong hands barely catching him as he tripped over his own feet. Benedict whipped around and Henry stared up at him like he was a madman. "What on earth are you doing? Haven't you spoken to Antonio?" The shorter man asked, looking towards the doorway Benedict had unknowingly crossed. 

"Yes-" Benedict practically gasped, panic gripping his chest and - curses - making his eyes water. He hadn't cried from fear since he was nine years old and his elder brother convinced him the house was haunted. Henry's expression immediately softened and he quirked a small smile, taking his friend by the elbow. 

"Come along, my office is just here." He said, a guiding hand extending towards a closed door. He unlocked it with a key from his pocket and led Benedict inside, closing it again behind them. "Please, sit down. Take a moment to compose yourself and we can talk." 

Benedict obeyed, perching on one the comfortable chairs on the room's right hand side. He was still holding the leather tube he felt foolish for buying now, he certainly could never show his face in this house again. 

Henry poured them each a small whiskey and handed one to Benedict before taking his seat. The younger man held the thick tube between his legs, free hand faffing with indecision, then felt another wave of hot and cold and placed it carefully on the floor instead. When he sat back up, Henry was studying him. 

As always, when under stress, Benedict took an ill-advised gulp of his drink, the strong spirit burning his throat. Henry huffed disapprovingly through his nose and gently retrieved the glass from him, so they could have a sober conversation, even as he took a sip from his own. They sat in silence for a moment, besides the blood thundering in Benedict's ears, until it became too much for both of them. 

"I'm sorry if my instincts were wrong-"

"Honestly, Granville, I'm fine-"

They both stopped, staring at each other. Benedict swallowed dryly and gestured from Henry to continue, and he did with a sharp sigh. 

"I thought you were… interested in Antonio, Bridgerton, that's why I encouraged you both. He expressed an attraction to you, and we both thought you felt the same." He looked into Benedict's enormous wide eyes and pale countenance, and shook his head. "My instincts must have been wrong. I'm terribly sorry to have put you through this." He said, genuine self-loathing in his voice, his hunched posture. He was accusing himself of making Benedict feel… set upon, taken advantage of. This time, Benedict shook his head.

"No… no, you were not…-" he started, his chest still tight but he pushed through it. Henry looked up at him, his eyes wide now too. Benedict took a breath, fists tight on his own thighs. "You were not wrong, Henry. Not at all. I was- I _am_ interested in… in Mr. Moretti but, you've said it yourself, it is… dangerous. I am safe, my family is safe, if I do not act on… on whatever it is I feel towards him. What I feel towards _you_." He gave a soft, humourless laugh, grinning. "I don't know what on earth I'm even doing here, I just wanted to draw. And now… now I'm feeling all these strange feelings and it's as if… As if there is a door standing before me, wide open, with a beautiful lake right there, just steps away. But I am too afraid to swim in it." He whispered, feeling himself folding up in the chair, feeling the small of school rooms and twitching letters. The worst kind of small. 

"Bridg- Benedict…" Henry spoke softly, and Benedict looked at him. His face was serious, but gentle. "Do you not think the lake might give you some freedom from the earth?" He asked, voice soft. "If the earth causes you pain, if the ground is hot beneath your feet and the sun burns you… perhaps that lake is the perfect respite. Something that is entirely your own, a physical relief from your 'earthly' bonds." He took a breath, shrugging slightly. "Your fear is to endanger your family, your sisters and their futures, but... know that you are safe here. You can be who you are here, truly, and no-one will harm you or them. Not by fists, or whispers, or writing. You may swim in the lake, if you choose to."

Benedict's cheeks blazed hot as tears rolled down them, his mind perfectly blank besides those words. He was safe here. Henry would protect him, as he always knew he would. He and Lord Wetherby had been free to continue their affair for however many years within the house's concealing, sheltering walls. Perhaps Benedict _could_ take a swim in the lake, and rise from the water unscathed but equally fulfilled… 

"But… but I have never- I would not even know where to begin, how does it even-" Henry raised a patient hand to calm him and smiled. 

"Peace, my friend, do not vex yourself. Antonio is gentle, he will not-" 

"What if I don't want Antonio?" Benedict cut in, shocked by his own words. Again, Henry grew perplexed. 

"But you said-" 

"Obviously I _do_ want him." Benedict said, sounding so much like one of his petulant siblings it made him blush, and Henry grin. "I just… I have no experience with such matters. I would not wish to… disappoint him." He said, feeling stupid. Henry was a married man in more than one way, he would never-

"Perhaps I can help you gain some experience?" Henry suggested brightly, hardly missing a beat. Benedict looked at him, frowning. 

"You mean… teach me how to…" 

"Please a man? Of course! I am rather an expert, after all." He said with a grin that showed a rare hubris in the good-natured artist. Benedict gave a laugh of surprise, then frowned. 

"But, surely Lord Wetherby…?" Henry shrugged. 

"Andrew and I enjoy an understanding, much like my wife and I." He said with a wry smirk. "He will not begrudge me guiding a lost lamb towards the water he is so _desperate_ for." Benedict's entire head felt like it would explode at his teasing, and he buried his hot face in his hands with a groan.

"Good _Lord_ , man, are you trying to end my life…?" He asked with a weak, giddy chuckle. Henry laughed and Benedict felt a hand on his shoulder. 

"I will give your apologies to Antonio, and ask him to come for another session next week. Are you free for the rest of the evening?" Henry asked. Benedict looked at him and nodded, glad _someone_ had the faculties to take charge.

"Excellent, we will spend it together then. Or for as long as you wish." Henry said, smiling. "Stay here, I won't be a moment." He said, returning his glass to him if he promised to sip it, and left the study, closing the door softly behind him.

Benedict sat on the chair in Sir Henry Granville's office, and considered his own inner feelings. The panic had subsided, Henry had a way of soothing him, but there was still trepidation, still fear of dipping his toe into that glittering water. It was a fear of stepping in and finding no ground, the murky depths far deeper than expected, the void far too enticing. What if he sank and never resurfaced? What if he didn't want to rejoin those on solid ground?

"Benedict." Henry's voice was softly, suddenly above him again. "Shall we?" Benedict raised his eyes to find a hand stretched out to him, and he took it, taking the first plunge.


	4. Lovely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry leads Benedict to the lake of shining waters, and they take a thorough dip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned into a smutty epic, I do hope you enjoy 😉 
> 
> Possible TW: brief discussion of homophobia in Christianity

Benedict Bridgerton followed his friend rather meekly. The house felt empty when they emerged from Henry's office, almost eerie. Silence lay steadily even as Benedict's pulse roared in his ears.

Henry kept hold of his hand, marching him briskly towards a wide staircase and into a room. The same room, Benedict realised, he walked into and saw his first ever exposure to love between two men. He could recall the exact scene of Henry and Lord Wetherby entwined in a passionate embrace, their arms around each other like they were wrestling. Henry had looked so enthralled by his lover, his back against the wall as 'Andrew' ravished his neck with kisses. 

Then Henry's eyes had found Benedict, flashing with terror until he saw who it was, or perhaps when Benedict did not bellow his disgust, and he returned to his lover's shoulder, biting the flesh there. It made Benedict's mouth dry just to picture it. 

"Come along, Bridg- Benedict." Henry said, correcting himself again. Family names were what you called school chums, friendly acquaintances at the club, or a shooting partner. Not someone you were about to bed.  _ Really _ . 

"I, oh… it seems this house will never cease offering me… pleasurable experiences." The tall young man said, blush present on his high cheekbones. A well-bred specimen, to be sure. 

Henry stopped to smile at him and, slowly, wrapping him in an embrace. Benedict watched him with wide but thoroughly engaged eyes, leaning down when Henry leaned up, and their lips met softly. The kiss sent a tidal wave of emotions over Benedict, starting with fear and ending in lust. Henry lingered, yet parted them too soon, sitting him gently on the large bed his wife did not share with him. "Where… does Mrs. Granville sleep…?" Benedict asked, terror coming out in non sequiturs. 

"Lucy's bedroom is in the West Wing. We are well distanced." Henry said with an indulgent smile. 

"Is it… decorated like this?"

"More to her tastes." Henry said, slowly unbuttoning his own waistcoat to catch up to his companion's state of dress.  _ Don't forget your waistcoat.  _

"Ah, yes. When Daphne got married, Eloise got her room and completely changed the décor." Benedict said, nodding. Henry nodded too, casting off the outer layer and peeling off his braces before starting on his shirt. Benedict tapped his own knees, looking anywhere but at the older man, who was smiling fondly. "Do you know what colour scheme she-" 

Fingers roughened by brush and chemicals pressed against his lips gently, then Henry's smile replaced them. His hands found the sides of Benedict's thighs, his torso between his knees, their hearts close. 

"Do please be quiet, darling." Henry whispered against Benedict's cheek, one hand moving to stroke his endearingly wild flicks of soft black hair. Benedict nodded quickly, pressing his own lips together to keep them under control. "I am going to undress you now, alright?" Henry asked, and Benedict nodded again, eyes owlishly wide, swallowing rather loudly. "You may speak if you wish. But no more about my wife  _ or _ your sisters." He said with a chuckle. 

"That… is an excellent compromise." Benedict said weakly and Henry's chuckle was warm and instantly made the aspiring artist relax. After all, he was in the hands of a master. 

But, because he couldn't resist, Benedict broke the kiss to ask "What about my mother?", to which Henry kissed him harder, in an effort to stop him. The tension started to bleed out of the younger man as they both chuckled, helping Henry peel his trouser braces from his shoulders.

With slow but easy movements, the painter unbuttoned Benedict's shirt, then pulled it out of his trousers and off. Being shirtless, or nearly shirtless as he was, in front of other men wasn't particularly unusual, given sporting events and various school activities. What was unusual, at least in Benedict's narrow view, was when Henry found the buttons of his breeches. 

Something instinctual had Benedict standing up quickly, escaping the man's exploratory touches and moving mindlessly towards the door. Then he stopped, his face blazing with heat and he felt the familiar bubble of panic in his chest. He did not want to leave, but he couldn't seem to handle staying either.

"I am... dreadfully sorry, Henry." He said breathlessly, then cleared his throat nervously, because he didn't know what to do. Henry stayed kneeling on the floor, letting out a small sigh before looking at Benedict, one elbow on the mattress. 

"Too fast?" He questioned, patient as a saint. Benedict smiled crookedly, a battle occurring between his urge to flee and his urge to let Henry do whatever he wanted to him. 

"I'm afraid I, um-" he started, but couldn't finish the excuse. So, he said what he meant. "I am… afraid."

Henry nodded and stood up, smiling gently. He didn't prowl towards him, didn't try to touch or entice him any further, just stood within reach but no crowding. Benedict took the opportunity to take a long, deep breath, willing his scattering thoughts to form at  _ least _ an orderly queue. 

He looked over Henry's body, feeling he could do that here, now. His strong arms and shoulders, his stocky build affording him a certain steadiness of presence. Benedict wanted him just as he wanted Antonio, the gorgeous Italian model. He felt entirely safe with Henry.

So Benedict decided, belatedly he suspected, to stop acting like a frightened bunny. "Please, just… lock the door." He said, finally. "I know, from experience, that you  _ don't _ ." He added, with a raise of his eyebrows. Henry grinned and nodded, rushing to do so. He made a point of leaving the key in the lock, giving Benedict the option to leave if he wished.

"Perhaps I was hoping for a certain someone to stroll in that night." Henry purred, feigning casualness so Benedict's poor brain had time to process his words. "Perhaps, if you had stayed a little longer… or made yourself slightly more available, we would have invited you to join us." Benedict's startled expression deeply endeared him to the man. "I speak no lies. But you were not ready, and that is fine. And if you are not ready now, that is just as fine." The options just confused the young man, and he put his face in his hands. "The question I ask you now, Benedict, is: are we ever truly 'ready' for anything?" He asked, philosophically. Benedict looked at him from between his fingers and groaned mournfully. 

Henry chuckled and moved back into his space, carefully taking his wrists and moving his hands away to reveal wide blue eyes, lovely pink lips. They stood very close, Henry kissing Benedict's soft palms gently as the taller man stared at him. Henry heard him swallow, a small click in his bobbing throat, and looking up at Benedict through his lashes.

"I… believe I am as ready as I could hope to be." The second Bridgerton son breathed. " _ And _ I am sober enough now to make reasonable decisions, in case you were worried about taking advantage of me." Henry smiled, releasing his wrists to wrap his own arms around Benedict's slim waist, and leaned up to kiss him. After a long moment, Benedict's whole body seemed to melt into Henry's warmth, and his arms wrapped around his shoulders. 

In the natural distraction of the blazing kiss, Henry was able to get Benedict's undershirt off without distressing him, and then tentatively tried his breeches again. He felt Benedict freeze at the initial tug of the top button but, with some soft words and calming kisses, he was able to undo this as well. Benedict stepped out of his boots and breeches with surprising grace, and Henry did the same. After all, they did have a lake to explore.

They stood, dressed in only their small clothes, and stared at each other. Benedict was breathless, his pale chest flushed, as were his cheeks and ears. Henry could see his arousal through his cotton drawers and knew he was presenting much the same image when Benedict's already large eyes widened even further.

"Bloody hell, Granville, you are...-" then he blushed furiously, covering his mouth. Henry grinned, hands on hips, proud as punch. 

" _ Extremely _ well endowed? Thank you for noticing." He said. "You are not too bad yourself." Benedict waved him away with a scoff, nose wrinkling even as his eyes remained fixed on the truly impressive bulge. Then his hand dropped away and he licked his lips. Henry beamed. "By all means, my friend. Become acquainted." He said, half teasing, half absolutely not. 

Benedict glanced at him quickly, with an expression somewhere between trepidation and hunger, then he stepped forward and sank to his knees. Henry let out a moan of pleasure just from the sight, fingers immediately settling in the famous Bridgerton Boys' curls. "Take your time, we are in no rush at all." Henry reminded him and Benedict nodded, a lovely earnest expression on his lovely earnest face.

"You may need to… offer your hedonistic wisdom." He said, smiling through his fear again. Henry stroked his hair with a smile, and helped him by pushing his drawers down his own hips, revealing his developing erection to the air and to Benedict's innocent (at least in this regard) eyes, which were as wide as saucers.

"Nothing too esoteric to start off with, I promise." Henry teased. "First, grasp it firmly - but gently." Benedict huffed a laugh and hesitantly reached up, fingers just barely brushing the turgid flesh and making it twitch in response. Taking a deep breath, the inexperienced - in  _ this _ specific regard - man wrapped his hand around the proud staff and held it in front of him like a particularly unusual confection. 

He adjusted his grip and then looked up at Henry with a smile, ready for his next task. Heart wrenching with how utterly adorable the look was, Sir Granville nodded his approval and took a deep breath. "Recreate what you have experienced from women, perhaps. Or do as you would to pleasure yourself. Your hands, your… well, if you could, perhaps your mouth." He said, and Benedict chuckled.

"You may be surprised by my flexibility." He practically purred, a naughty grin on his previously terrified face. Henry huffed a laugh and swept his fingers through his hair. 

"You really are fetching, Benedict…" he whispered, running a thumb over his lower lip. 

Henry was so free with compliments, so immediately willing and able to lift Benedict's spirits. Even at the art club, where he had immediately felt out of place among bohemian nakedness and 'ordinary people' (though if they were at an art club hosted by Sir Granville, the Queen's painter, they were surely anything but), Henry had easily helped him feel at home. Benedict smiled up at him, feeling his rigidly-held posture relax, his grip on the man's member becoming surer. 

He took a deep breath, Henry biting his lip when it ghosted over the sensitive head of his cock, and gave the solid muscle a slow stroke towards its tip. It felt similar to his own in hand, though admittedly larger, and throbbed with the quick, steady beat of his host's heart. 

He gave another couple of languid strokes, watching with fascination as the skin covered and retracted over the bulbous pink head, rubbing his fingers over the ever-emboldening veins until a small drop of white liquid leaked from the tip. Benedict licked his lips, feeling an urge to taste the little pearl, and looked up at Henry. The painter, who was watching his wonderfully expressive face the entire time, gave a nod. Benedict needed no further encouragement. 

Shifting slightly closer on his knees, he leaned forward and… and ran his salivating tongue over the other man's cock, the salty warmth flooding his mouth. He let out a moan before he could stop himself, eyes fluttering closed as he savoured the taste, the  _ feeling _ . He wrapped his lips around the fountain, earning another tiny spurt as Henry's grip tightened slightly in his hair. 

Summoning his bravery, Benedict peeled his eyes open and met Henry's, shocked to find heat blazing in the gentle brown gaze. It was unlike anything he had experienced before, nothing like being with his previous lovers. There was a sense of complete and total clarity, understanding that this was what he wanted; mind, body and soul. 

How was it he had hardly considered the concept, and therefore the  _ appeal _ , of being inches away from another man's penis until he met Henry? The man must be a witch. 

Slowly, thoughts of teeth and suffocation whirling wildly in his head, Benedict pressed his own head forwards, holding the stiffness in place so it entered his mouth. It was hot on his tongue, and heavy, the pulse radiating through his cheeks. The heat was almost overwhelming, he felt like his eyes might cook from the intense waves, but it only made him crave more. He drew back when the depth was nearing discomfort and made sure to clamp his lips around the member as he went, cheeks hollowing when he remembered to suck as well, causing a  _ very _ lewd noise. 

Vaguely, over the roar of his own rushing blood, he heard Henry's voice and looked up at him again. The older man's head was tipped back, just the bobbing column of his neck visible above his heaving chest, his back arched, and he was moaning. Not the moan of a man bored to tears by an overly ambitious but ultimately untalented sexual partner, but a man feeling  _ pleasure _ . Benedict, a man of limited experiences, was giving Henry, a man of the world, actual pleasure. The feeling was fantastic, he must tell Genevieve about it later. She moaned with him as well, of course, but even she didn't make him feel this proud for achieving them. 

"You… are… a natural, Benedict." Henry praised him, smiling down, and spurred Benedict on, giving him confidence to attempt a deeper dive. The lake was warm and enticing.

He adjusted his knees on the rug and hesitantly placed his hands on the bare skin of Henry's thighs, brushing the soft downy hair that covered them. He opened his eyes and watched as the thicker hatch of dark curls moved closer and closer to him with every bob of his head. 

His goal was to bury his nose in that lovely, musty patch and take a good sniff, even if he could only stand a moment. Henry encouraged him, of course, but told him not to push himself. "Don't try to show off, Bridgerton, you simply are not the type." He said, tucking a curl behind one ear. Benedict smiled up at him, despite his mouth's current occupation, and - Heaven help him -  _ winked _ , making Henry bite his lips against the moan that came next. 

Benedict worked his way up and down the thick shaft, his jaw beginning to ache already, and made sure he kept his tongue moving. He couldn't quite get over how normal this completely foreign sensation felt, it was truly wonderful. Henry moaned and hissed his pleasure as Benedict did his best, the artist's wonderful hands in his protégé dark hair. Was that perverse? Perhaps.

He was just beginning to take the thick cock further towards the back of his throat, disappointed with his own inability not to choke, when Henry gasped and stepped back quite suddenly, leaving Benedict with his mouth open, wet and empty, and a look of shock on his face. "M-my apologies, Bridgerton, I simply… did not wish to... expel myself so quickly. I want to touch  _ you _ ." Henry said, panting, bending to retrieve a handkerchief from his pooled breeches and returned to Benedict. Gently, he cupped the panting young man's chin and wiped at the drool that had collected there, smiling fondly. "I was not expecting such… enthusiasm." Henry said, chuckling, and Benedict blushed as he was helped to his feet. 

"Nor was I, frankly." He said, his voice an octave lower than usual and sending a shiver down his friend's spine. 

Henry grabbed his waist and pushed him, bodily, over to the bed. The backs of Benedict's knees hit the mattress and he fell backwards with a breathless laugh, landing with a bounce on the comfortable surface. Henry was quick to cover him with his own body, their tongues and mouth battling for dominance until Henry pinned Benedict's wrists to the bed and demanded it, tasting himself on his tongue. Benedict, rarely one to assert anything in particular, relinquished with a giggle, panting and gasping when Henry moved to his jaw and down his throat. Their legs were entangled, a thigh each against their manhoods getting them both moaning. 

Now they were on the bed, Henry seemed almost  _ frantic _ , kissing and sucking and nibbling his way down Benedict's chest, laving his nipples with licks and bites that had Benedict's spine arching, calloused hands on the younger man's hips to keep them still. Benedict tried to keep his own head in check, an avalanche of pleasure threatening to muffle his wits. Then Henry was pulling his drawers down and his mind decided it no longer wished to function, his body, alive with sensation, quite able to handle the situation. 

A man's lips brushed his cock, different to a woman's softness. Henry's lips were not full and plush, they were… firm, certain, like the rest of him. There was a brush of less than a day's worth of stubble, a roughness that had Benedict bucking his hips until those same, strong hands held them down again. 

He was no stranger to being seen to in this way, his past lovers draped him in attention just as he did them, but  _ Henry's _ focused love was all the more captivating, his mind consumed. The hands moved down his thighs, spreading them with a commanding force that was truly foreign to him, lifting and bending his knees so his feet were on the bed, Henry's hips between them, then his hand. 

The first touch of fingers made Benedict yelp and push Henry away instinctively, panting, eyes wide. Henry moved back, sheepish. "Definitely too fast…" he muttered, mostly to himself. "My apologies, Benedict, I… I should have warned you." He said, kneeling between his legs. But Benedict didn't look frightened, not this time, he looked  _ confused. _

"I do not…- Wh-what were you intending to do…  _ there… _ ?" He asked, perplexed. They frowned at each other for a moment, for different reasons, until Henry's brow cleared and he smiled warmly. 

"I see! You do not know how two men make love?" He asked, rather too condescending it seemed because Benedict's expression became a pout. Henry soothed his hands down Benedict's chest and stomach, then down the inside of his upper thigh, making him both flinch and shiver, his erection still hard against his stomach. 

When he didn't resist, Henry smiled and quickly leaned over to the table at his bedside, opening the drawer and fishing out a small, blue jar. "Many men believe in 'spit and persistence', but I prefer a more elegant approach to ease entry." He said, unscrewing the jar's lid and dipping his forefinger tip into a oily, viscous substance Benedict couldn't even begin to identify.

"Entry…?" Benedict asked, his uninitiated mind reeling as it slowly made the connection. "You wish to… insert…  _ there… _ ?" He asked, face incredulous but not repulsed. 

"If you allow me, yes. If you do not wish to, I would be willing but… I should like to be the one entering you…" he said, a hint of shyness now.

"Lord Wetherby… you do this with him…?" Henry smiled and nodded, rubbing the herb-smelling substance against the pad of his own thumb.

"Yes, many times. We take turns, though I must say I prefer the 'top' position usually." He said. Benedict's own blush was what threatened to roast his eyes this time as he watched the slide of skin between Henry's fingers. He gave a slow nod, taking a breath.

"Yes, alright. Do whatever you wish, Henry." He said, then looked into his eyes and gave a small smile. "I trust you." Henry placed the jar on the mattress and kissed him with the ferocity of a beast, pressing him back down on the bed. Then he stood up, leaving Benedict swollen-lipped and breathless again, and traced his hands down the younger man's shins to his ankles, gripping the bones lightly. 

"Then… will you allow me to use my mouth?  _ There _ ?" He asked, teasingly imitating Benedict's shocked inflection. Benedict gave his crooked smirk despite himself, swallowing thickly. "It will be pleasurable, I promise, and assist in relaxation." Henry added, and Benedict bit down on his bottom lip before nodding again. 

"In for a penny." He said, and Henry's smile turned devilish. 

"In for a pound." He finished. 

He held Benedict's ankles and twisted them over each other so he rolled onto his front with a startled laugh, then grabbed his hips and pulled him down so he settled on the floor, the rug soft under his knees again. 

Slightly disoriented, his hands and face in the thick quilt, Benedict could only listen and feel as Henry knelt behind him. He moaned involuntarily at the hands on his arse, gasped when fingers dug into his flesh and spread the cheeks apart. Then Henry gave a moan of his own, and rubbed a thumb over his hole. It was just as unusual as the first time, but not quite so unexpected. Benedict felt himself twitch in a way he hadn't before, both front and back, and readied himself for more. 

Henry took a breath, fixated on the lovely pale pink pucker before him, a soft dusting of dark hair surrounding it.

"Lovely…" he breathed, rubbing the pad of his thumb against it and waiting for it to yield. A small amount, enough to show him Benedict wasn't clenching in fear, and so Henry leaned forward. He kissed each cheek delicately, the white mounds soft and cool against his own skin, before placing a third on his ultimate destination, smiling at the slight jump Benedict gave at the contact. "I am going to use my tongue, Benedict, my mouth. I will not hurt you, and I will stop if you tell me to." He said, and Benedict's head nodded in assent, his partner drawing on a shaking, excited breath. 

The first lick was a slow, wide stripe between his cheeks, starting from the tense skin beneath his balls and ending at his tailbone. 

"Oh…" Benedict said, and that was all, Henry repeating the action. Rewarded by a gasp, the Bridgerton man frowning slightly at the sensation, Sir Henry grinned, rubbing his thumb against it again, this time getting more yield from the slickened flesh. Again, Henry applied his tongue to the hole, undulating the muscle against the ring and listening reverently to Benedict's hums and moans and expressions of surprise. 

It was fantastic to be with someone so inexperienced, like seeing his own world for the first time all over again. It felt safer than his own first time too, a home that was his and a door with a lock, not a stolen foray in the gardens of his art school, the thrill of being discovered but the terror of it too. They would have been hung from the nearest tree even there, he was sure. Here, he could protect Benedict just as he and Wetherby protected each other, how Lucy protected him. He was glad to provide this first time for his friend, so he may explore the lake further at his own pace, now he was taking that first dive in. 

After several moments of continuous movement against the hole, Henry felt the tight ring give and he sank his tongue inside. Benedict's eyes rolled back in his head as he let out a choked gasp of pleasure, spreading his thighs further around his companion's frame behind him. 

"O-oh… my goodness…!" The Bridgerton gasped, staring up at the bed's embroidered finery as every ounce of his focus shifted entirely to a part of his body he generally disregarded. He felt the invasive wriggling like it was a strike of lightning to his veins, a continuous thrum of pleasure that felt close to clouding his vision as his neck craned and his eyelashes fluttered. He felt the stubble again, on the much more sensitive area, and the strength of Henry's hands on his hips and shaking thighs. His fingers clenched in the handsome quilt, his stomach drawn up and chest heaving with the noises he was hardly aware of making. When Henry touched his cock, heavy between his legs, Benedict let out a wail that would have put any whore to shame, and Henry drank in the sound. Then the assault disappeared, leaving Benedict's wet hole chilled and blood pounding in his ears. 

Panting, he tried to look over his shoulder to see what was happening, a sudden fear of abandonment or exposure, only to watch Henry's lovely brown hand appear and dip two of his clever fingers into the open jar of that strange substance. 

"W-what is that…?" Benedict asked, panting harshly now. Henry's low, ever so slightly slurred voice, spoke, close enough that he could feel his hot breath on his back.

"A concoction of my own creation, a mix of plants that amplifies pleasure while easing entry, as I said. It also serves as salve when one is rather sore afterwards. I shall give you a jar, never fear." Henry said, settling back on his heels and taking in the pink, fluttering hole. 

"It… will be sore?" 

"It  _ is _ your first time, my dear, though I will do my best to prepare you. It will likely be rather tender for a few days - I hope you don't have cause to ride a horse." Henry teased, grinning when Benedict groaned.

"Certainly not anymore..." he muttered. Then he drew himself up on his knees and elbows, and gave an extremely-brave-for-him wiggle of his hips. Henry sucked in a breath and gripped the naughty things, kneading his thumbs into his skin only to be gratified by a soft hiss from Benedict. With his freshly  _ re _ lubricated fingers, Henry did the same as he had already done, pressing the pads to the hole he was already beginning to worship. 

As expected, the heated circle opened for them like a flower, accepting the gentle prod of the first digit with a soft slippery sound and loud, half-bitten down moan from Benedict. Thoroughly pleased, Henry pressed his finger in at a determined pace, reached up to the last knuckle before twisting it and crooking it just as he would for Andrew, searching out the ever important cluster of pleasure that, when found, had Benedict half yelping an aborted sound of utter ecstasy, then his head whipped around to look at him. 

"Y-you  _ are _ a witch…!" He cried, lovely face the same colour as his lovely hole. Henry laughed warmly, pressing it again to watch Benedict's face tense then slacken, teeth bared, before his head flopped down with an exhale. 

"Easily reachable by yourself, I assure you." Henry said, pleased when this sent a shiver up his friend's spine. "May I add another?" He asked, glad to have him talking. Benedict, panting as he propped himself up again, nodded his head. "Words would be preferred." Henry said, a tiny note of warning in his deep voice. The young man bit his lip, his shoulders shifting deliciously as he spread his legs slightly further apart.

"Yes… please…!" He breathed. Henry made a pleased noise in his chest and rewarded him with drawing his hand back and slipping in a second finger, the slide easy but causing a small hiss from Benedict. 

"Do tell me if it is beyond your comfort, Benedict. I believe in honesty in the bedroom." Henry said, soothing a hand over the pale cheek, wanting to smack it pink and mottled, or sink his teeth into the flesh and make his own pattern. Not tonight, he told himself.

"Yes, I will…!" Benedict hiccoughed, moving his hips a bit to further explore the feeling. "I cannot imagine it  _ not _ hurting, given your size…" he muttered. Henry chuckled.

"I will endeavour to reduce the risk, but it may yet. But perhaps you may like it." He said, watching his own fingers disappear into the hot passage. He could feel the fluttering insides every time Benedict heard his voice, something wonderfully appreciative in it. So, Henry leaned forward as he slipped the third finger in, hooking his chin over Benedict's shoulder as he hummed his confused feelings. "Are you enjoying yourself, Benedict?" Henry asked lowly, using his free hand to rub over his chest. 

More fluttering, a clenching that pulled a high moan out of Benedict, whose flush radiated against Henry's cheek. "I shall take that as a yes." Henry kissed his shoulder and shifted himself closer, his fingers still inside Benedict as his hips shunted against the younger man. Benedict's left hand rose beside their heads, flexing uncertainly in the air, then Henry grabbed his wrist and kissed his palm lovingly. Benedict huffed a laugh, confident enough to bury the hand in Henry's thick locks as originally intended. 

Suddenly, their closeness was too intoxicating and neither could wait for further preparations. With some hastily whispered assurances from both, Henry pulled his fingers out and Benedict crawled up onto the mattress, lying back with a deep sigh. Henry knelt between his legs, grinning with a self satisfied air that made Benedict smirk and roll his eyes. 

"I should not have made it this easy for you." He muttered and Henry laughed, leaning forward for a kiss, hands either side of Benedict's lightly freckled hips. 

"I would not dream of commenting on your 'easiness', Mr. Bridgerton." He purred, and Benedict grinned lopsidedly. 

"I should hope not." He chuckled, tentatively wrapping his arms around Henry's neck. Henry settled closer to him, their bare erections meeting in a rough grind that had both men gasping. "Henry… I am ready." Benedict said, breath harsh and catching. Henry nodded, kissing his cheek, and grabbed a pillow from the unused pile. 

"Lift your hips, please." He said, and Benedict obeyed, using his feet to arch his long, slender body upwards. Henry shoved the pillow under him, presenting him at a startlingly evocative angle. Benedict giggled nervously and Henry grinned, kissing him again. "No fear, my dear." He whispered, and Benedict nodded. 

He watched as Henry dipped his fingers back into the jar of slick and rubbed it, languidly, along his truly impressive length. Benedict drew his knees up without prompting, his chest tightening slightly at the size now it was presented  _ in situ _ , as it were. Then a dry, gentle hand squeezed his thigh and he looked up at Henry's calm, smiling face. Benedict swallowed and nodded.

"No fear, my dear." He repeated, and Henry positively beamed with pride, making sure his head was resting on a nice pillow. 

"It may hurt at first, but I will stop if you ask me to. We must allow time for your body to adjust. Alright?" He asked.

"Yes." Benedict said. Henry adjusted his hips a little, pulling them closer and tilting them upwards to allow good access to his awaiting entrance. They exchanged a heated look before Henry positioned himself, and pressed forward. 

The initial breach was much like the fingers, though far  _ hotter _ . Benedict was about to grin, say it wasn't as bad as expected, until Henry pushed in a tad further, the bulbous head entering him at its widest circumstance, and the young man gasped, then clenched his teeth in a groan. Henry stopped immediately, rubbing both hands up and down Benedict's thighs, over his arms. 

"Try to relax, my dear. Breathe deeply." He said. "The feeling will improve, I promise you." He said, pulling out slightly before sinking back in. Benedict clamped his mouth shut and breathed through his nose, closing his blue eyes to stop the tears that pricked them. Henry's slick hand grasped his companion's member and stroked it carefully. Benedict gave a moan, concentrating on the pleasure this wrought as his body adjusted to the intrusion. 

"Do… women feel this much pain…?" 

"Some do, and depending on the orifice, I'm sure. Many people would say this act was not God's intention, which is why men should not love each other in this way, but I would disagree." Benedict squinted one eye open to look at him and Henry explained. "Remember that jolt of pleasure when I pressed something inside you?" Benedict moaned at the memory and nodded, eager for that to happen again. He even felt himself relax, as if his body agreed. "Women do not have this place inside them. Of course you know they have other pleasures, but not that one. So, the logic follows that God saw it fit to give that place to men so they could experience pleasure this way, you see?" He asked. Benedict scoffed, his stomach jumping and breath hitching, and he nodded. 

"I shall… explain that to our clergyman next time I am in church." Benedict said with a breathless laugh, and Henry grinned. 

"I would pay to see that." He said. "How does it feel now?" He asked, peppering Benedict's throat with kisses. The taller man shifted slightly and nodded.

"Better… please continue." He said. Henry held his hip in one hand, the other holding himself up, and rolled his hips again, the rest of the head entering him along with a good inch more. Benedict's head snapped back and he let out a choked gasp, tightening his grip on Henry's arm. "Keep-keep going…!" He begged when Henry stopped again, legs wrapping around the smaller man's thighs to coax him further. "I want it… all…!"

Henry made another growl-like sound and did as he wished, pushing into the almost painfully, even for him, tight passage until he could go no further, their hips pressed firmly together. Tears rolled down Benedict's cheeks and Henry kissed and licked them away, carding his hand through his hair in comfort.

"Good boy… you never cease to surprise me, Benedict… My good boy…" he panted, wrapped his arms around his waist to hold him even closer, long legs slung over broad shoulders. Benedict whined at the praise, his insides clamping around Henry and making them both moan. 

"Henry… move, please… I feel I am going insane." The Bridgerton hissed, heel digging into the small of Henry's back as his hands and nails beseeched his shoulders and back. Henry clenched his teeth, moaning as he pulled back, drawing the same noise from Benedict when he pushed back in slowly. He was incredibly tight still, Henry feared damaging him.

"I do not want to hurt you, Ben-" 

"You are not hurting me…! You are ahh-awakening my soul." It was over dramatic, as expected from his family name, but it set the fire in Henry from a blaze to a roar. He gripped the young man's hips, and began thrusting with all of his power, both sets of nails digging and tearing at each other's backs as they began to move in unison, Benedict bearing himself up as Henry thrust downwards into his very core, their near sobs of pleasure punctuated by frantic slaps of flesh. 

Feeling the primal surge of need, Henry cradled Benedict's back while hooking his hands over Benedict's shoulders, using his own strength to shunt his body onto his own cock, Benedict  _ wailing _ in ecstacy, panting his name with every thrust. His toes curled and long legs tightened around Henry's waist, his eyes rolling back in his skull, his sharp teeth sunk deep into his lower lip. Henry pushed his thumb into his mouth, pressing on his tongue so his mouth opened in a broken sob and Henry kissed him, holding tightly just as Benedict held him.

"H-Hah!-Henry, I am going to…-" 

"Yes, me too…!" Henry gasped, wedging one hand between them to grasp hold of Benedict's leaking cock, wringing it in time with his own movements, until there is screaming, tightening, spilling. Henry's vision clouded and, when he awoke, he was wheezing for breath, the itch in his brain satisfied, his hips heavy against the man's beneath him, face against an equally heavy chest.

Slowly, as if underwater, he pushed himself up on weak arms to look down at his panting lover. Hair wild, around his eyes pink and wet, a crooked smile on his kiss-swollen lips, Benedict Bridgerton really was lovely. Henry kissed him gently, combing a hand through his haphazard curls, and Benedict hummed in sleepy happiness, his heavy hands stroking at Henry's sideburns. 

"I must say…" he said, voice hoarse and wrecked as he got his breath back, "that was...  _ quite _ fantastic…" Henry chuckled and kissed his shoulder, breathing him in before, carefully, drawing his hips back. With a small grimace from both, he slipped free of Benedict's body, the white seed quickly chasing him away. Benedict shivered and sighed, frowning slightly at the sensation. Then his fingers touched his own stomach and found his own spend, blushing hard when he saw the mess had transfered between their bodies. Henry, blushing just as handsomely, grinned and kissed him slowly, then rolled himself over to lie beside him. 

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. The first swim is always the hardest." 

"Yes, I can already feel I'll have to make myself scarce tomorrow - my family is  _ extremely _ nosy." He said with a sigh, pulling the pillow from beneath his hips and wincing as he settled into the mattress. Henry smiled and nodded, looking at him from the next pillow.

"A warm bath will help. And I'll get you a jar of that remedy…" he said before sitting up. His warm grown eyes dragged over the long, lithe figure beside him, and he leaned over to kiss him again before getting up. 

Benedict, thinking that was his very endearing way of dismissing him, sat up too, watching Henry and his wonderful arse walk across the room to a dresser. As he rummaged in the drawers, Benedict located his, slipping the cotton small clothes up his legs before recalling the liquid mess still leaking from him. So, he pulled his handkerchief from his breeches pockets - luckily within reach - and used it to pad his underwear until he got home. Their governess had made sure to inform all the Bridgerton boys, and girls, what a woman had to deal with during her 'monthly woe' and he used that knowledge practically now. He was just pulling on his trousers, now standing up rather stiffly, when Henry turned around with an 'ah-ha!'. His grin fell when he saw Benedict getting dressed, a definite disappointment in his kind face. 

"Oh… you…- You can stay, if you wish?" He offered gently. Benedict froze, sensing he'd made a faux pas, as it seemed was rather the Bridgerton way. How on earth they had become so highly regarded he did not know. Well, no sense looking more of a fool, best to commit to it as if it were a conscious decision.

"Alas, I cannot, much as I would like to…" He said, looking longingly at Henry in all his naked glory. Perhaps he could stay the night, make his excuses in the morning. Certainly no-one ever questioned  _ Anthony _ when he was out all hours, but he doubted Eloise would let him get away with it and he shouldn't like to use Genevieve as an excuse. So, he sighed and shook his head. "No, I must return home. I will see you next week?" He asked, and Henry smiled. He walked over to him, placing the small jar in his hand. 

"If not sooner. It is also good for dry skin." He said, then craned his head up for a kiss, which Benedict accepted without question, and quite happily. 

"I really did have a wonderful time, Henry. Thank you for… for shepherding me." He said, picking up his shirt, and Henry laughed.

"Is that what they're calling it nowadays?" He asked, watching Benedict dress with a small smile. He slipped his boots on and was just looking around for something when Henry pulled him in for another kiss, arms around his waist, hands on his increasingly uncomfortable-feeling posterior. Benedict reciprocated, arms around Henry's shoulders, before the shorter man stepped away with the devil in his eyes. "So you do not forget me. Goodnight, Bridgerton." 

"Goodnight…" Benedict said, picking up his drawings case, and drifted out of the house as though on a cloud. 


	5. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict the criminal mastermind and Genevieve the absolute queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chaotic-but-frequent posting is very unusual for me, I'm just really enjoying writing this story. Get used to the chaos, not the frequency.

Benedict Bridgerton had forgotten his waistcoat.

It wasn't until he was in the carriage cab, on his way home, that he realised. 

"Shit." He hissed into the darkness, face screwed into a scowl. He supposed it wasn't the worst thing in the world, perhaps he could use it as an excuse to visit Henry again, outside of club time, but then again Henry's life was not so simple as that. An unannounced caller could be as stressful to the poor man as a constabulary raid, or a lover walking on an act with someone else… 

Benedict tried to imagine what it would be like to see Henry and Wetherby together now, after had had been with Henry… he wouldn't be jealous, he never really was aside from which brother his sisters preferred, but he didn't know how Henry, or indeed Wetherby, would feel if he walked in on them again. 

_ "Perhaps, if you had stayed a little longer… or made yourself slightly more available, we would have invited you to join us." _

Had that been in earnest, Henry's purred teasing? Or had it been simply something said to calm Benedict? He did not know, but he couldn't say he was opposed to the idea. Lord Wetherby was a truly handsome man, and together they must be…

"Oh, for pity's sake…" he muttered to himself, shifting on the hard seat and shaking his head. 

*

The cab dropped him outside of the Bridgerton House, and he paid the driver extra. He took a deep breath before climbing the steps, knowing he must look an absolute state.

He unlocked and opened the heavy door, hoping he was being quiet as he stepped into the foyer. He had forgotten his coat as well, he belatedly noticed. All he wanted to do was wash and get to bed. 

He stopped when he saw his mother, about to ascend the stairs when she heard him come in, holding a cup of tea. She turned with a jump, then smiled when she saw him, relaxing. She looked ethereal in her long white bed shift and jacket, hair in a thick plait over her shoulder.

"Benedict! You are out terribly late, my darling." She said, now frowning at his rather bedraggled state with some disapproval, probably fearing her kind son was a rake after all. "Where is your waistcoat? You were wearing the lovely gold one, I believe?"

"Oh, I left it behind." He said feigning deliberateness. "Didn't want to dirty it." He said, gesturing to his charcoal-covered sleeves. At her raised eyebrows, he explained. "Art club," he said, "hosted by Sir Henry Granville?" She looked puzzled, having trouble placing the name. A married painter was not exactly in her sights when scouting eligible bachelors for Daph. "Oh, married to Lucy Granville! Such a lovely woman." She said and he smiled, nodding. 

"Yes! Charming." He said, then sighed and continued to smile. "Well, goodnight, mother. Don't let me keep you." 

"Goodnight, dearest. I should like to see your sketches one day, so long as they are not too… babylonian." She said, smiling teasingly. He blushed and nodded. 

"Of course. Perhaps when I'm a bit better at it." He said. She made a maternal sort of face, perhaps not believing he could possibly be  _ bad _ at something, before continuing on her way up the stairs. 

Half mad with relief, he checked Anthony's study only to find it blessedly empty, and the decanter of brandy unattended. Swallowing a hasty gulp directly from the glass bottle, then another, he replaced the fluted stopper and went up to his own room, asking for a basin of hot water from a passing maid on his way. 

He went into his room and locked the door, pressing himself against it with a ragged breath. He could still feel the delicious ache of Henry's love between his legs, clenching his muscles briefly to truly enjoy the feeling, only to feel another stirring in his small clothes and willed the thoughts away. It had happened, it was wonderful, but it could not happen again… could it? 

He jumped at the knock on his door and took a breath before opening it, the maid from before holding a basin of clear, steaming water with a cloth already submerged. He took from her with thanks and she closed the door for him, wishing him goodnight, pausing only when he asked for a proper bath in the morning. She promised to pass it along and the door clicked closed, Benedict depositing the basin before rushing to lock it again.

He stripped himself carefully, cringing at the discomfort, and washed himself with the warm cloth, biting his hand to prevent the bubbling moans when he got to the intimate areas. He wiped his thighs and stomach and chest, under his arms, then his face with the clean cloth he usually used.

Then he looked down at his suspiciously stained breeches in utter horror. Fuck. How on earth could he possibly explain  _ that _ to anyone with a functioning brain?! He had no idea how to wash clothes, and the servants would certainly be confused as to why he was doing his own laundry. 

He thought about when Eloise first started her courses, when he was the only one who could console her enough to find out the matter. She'd shown him, weeping, the blood on her petticoat, and he'd blushed and gently explained what their governess had told them. But then they'd given the garments to Mrs. Wilson and she had hurried away with them, no doubt to perform some incredible feat of modern science to rid the white cotton of the stains. 

In a panic, Benedict dunked the breeches and small clothes into his wash basin, grabbing his nail brush and scrubbing until he and the floor were covered in water and he was panting for yet another reason this evening. Could he throw them in the fire? Would that be stupid? They weren't his favourite pair but he was fond enough of them to not wish to send them off into the inferno… 

No, he would cleverly disguise the mess as mere carelessness. Yes, perfect, entirely believable. He carefully removed the sodden pile from the dish and dropped it with a heavy slap on the floor, throwing his shirt on there as well for good measure, and placing his boots haphazardly as though he simply had no time to undress himself. 

Benedict stood back to regard his cleverly staged scene with a satisfied grin, nodding to himself. Then he spotted the forgotten jar Henry had given him and his whole body flushed, rushing to grab the concoction and shove into his dresser drawer. He checked again, and decided that the water in the basin showed obvious signs of his activities. 

Paranoid about smells and strange white swirls, Benedict Bridgerton crossed to the window of his bedroom, overlooking the stunning gardens, and checked directly below it. All clear, no unsuspecting footman having a cigarette in the flowerbed, and the library window below his was not lit. So, he carefully and slowly emptied the basin out of his window, making sure to distribute it over as much earth as he could so it wouldn't flood. And people said he wasn't clever.

Sighing, he then filled the basin up from his own jug of fresh drinking water. To perfect his rouse, he even spread some charcoal over both of his washcloths and left them both in the basin, the water darkened by deceit.

Pleased and jolly tired now, he finally fell into bed, dressed in a fresh nightshirt and snoring almost as soon as he pulled the quilt over himself. 

*

He was woken by a servant knocking on his door, talking about a bath. He hoarsely called them in, then remembered the door as still locked and leapt up, ensuring he was modestly covered before wrenching the door open with a grin. Two of the hallboys were carrying the heavy copper tub between them, and two maids had pails full of water. 

"Thank you, please come in. I'm sorry about the mess, I was rather drunk last night." He said, watching them work. The tub was placed in the centre of the floor, once the rug was rolled out of the way, and a bucket was placed over the fire to heat. He watched as one of the maids gathered the not even remotely dried clothes quickly and took them and the basin out without a word. Benedict sighed in relief and waited, trying to ignore the pulsing ache in his backside, for the water to be heated and poured into the tub, whereupon the remaining maid, her name was Bess, sprinkled in his favourite scent in, filling the room with the herby, floral aroma. 

"Thank you, Bess." he said, handing her some extra coins as he always did, and she grinned and bobbed a curtsey before closing the door, leaving him to it. This time, when he sank into the steaming water, he did allow a moan. His muscles were aching terribly from the evening's activities, and his bottom felt truly ragged. 

He couldn't possibly stay around the house, wincing every time he moved and Eloise or Hyacinth demanded to know what he'd been up to, and he couldn't face spending the day around his colleagues or brothers. He wanted someone calm and understanding, and he was desperate to tell her all about his escapades. 

*

After his bath, he dressed in his usual finery, a bright blue waistcoat today, and took himself off without a word to anyone or a single bite of breakfast. He stopped at a bakery to get some bread and patisserie, and went to La Modiste's back door. 

His wonderful dressmaker was serving customers at the front so he left a note on her back room desk and went upstairs. Here, he lounged and ate, tried to read a book in French before giving up, and finally nodded off.

Genevieve woke him with a kick to his shoe, muttering at him not to put them on the bed clothes, and he sat up with a yawned greeting. She was eating one of the croissants he'd brought, unpinning her hair. 

"Closed for the day?" He asked, scratching his head. She nodded, taking a seat beside him as she opened a bottle of wine. 

"No more appointments, no more patience." She said in her real accent, shrugging off her dress to get to her corset. It wasn't long after their foray that her faux Frenchness slipped in the throws of passion. He'd made fun of her for it but promised not to tell anyone, it was an amusing enough secret to keep even if he wasn't very fond of her, which he was. 

He helped her with the punishing metal clasps and she could finally breathe, more relaxed when she flung the bone-filled thing to the floor and stretched her back. She changed into silk lounging attire of her own creation, a button-up jacket and loose trousers inspired by a book she'd found on the Indian subcontinent, and tucked her black coils into a matching bonnet. 

"Is it that late already?" He asked, looking outside. It was perfectly bright still, perhaps 1 or 2 o'clock in the afternoon. 

" _ Non. _ " She said with a smile, eyeing him. "But I sensed I would want to be comfortable with whatever it is you simply  _ must _ tell me." She said dramatically, mocking his note. He huffed a laugh and turned to face her as they sat top-and-tail on her bed, taking a deep breath.

"You will never guess." He said, and her grin grew cunning. 

"Oh, really? Could it have something to do with Henry Granville, perhaps?" She asked, and he gaped at her. 

"How could…? How on earth did you-"

"Do not worry, my dear." She purred, smiling gentler now. No wonder she and Henry shared his heart, they were surprisingly similar. Talented and kind. "You talk about him constantly, and we discussed 'men's hands', remember?" 

"We were talking about  _ drawing _ !" He cried, and she gave a throaty laugh. She settled back against some rearranged pillows, putting her feet on his lap.

"Maybe  _ you _ were. But, obviously, we came to the same conclusion." She said. He sighed, smirking despite himself. "Well? Are you going to tell me or not?" She demanded. 

So he took a deep breath, and told her everything, even showing her the drawings.

" _ Mon Dieu _ , I am blushing!" She laughed when he was done. He was as well. "And this Antonio? What of him?"

"Well… Henry said he would be there next week so…" he shrugged coyly, and she grinned.

"You must, he sounds like a dream. If you do not have him, I may have to snatch him up myself." Again, her pretty smile curled into something more, tracing a finger over the charcoal depiction of an erect male member. "Antonio, yes? Is that not the Italian for-"

"Yes!" He interrupted. "Yes, it is. The irony is not lost on me, I assure you." 

"I must introduce you to Sienna, you have a lot in common." She said, cackling when his head nearly exploded from embarrassment. 

"I did not come here to be mocked." He said, laughing despite himself. 

"No, you came here to inform me that you have a more  _ fulfilled _ life than me." She said, and he grinned.

"I'm sure we can do something about that." He said, waggling his eyebrows, and she smiled, rolling her eyes. 

"Men are beasts." She said and he laughed. "But no, I have my courses. And a dress to finish for tomorrow." She grumbled. 

"Anything I can help with?" He asked, rubbing her foot the way she liked. She smiled and closed her eyes, relaxing back. 

"Would you like to colour categorise fabrics for me?" She asked and he grinned. 

"I would actually love to do that." She laughed and pulled herself up, kissing him. 

" _ Veet veet _ , then." She beckoned and he followed. He grabbed her hand before they went down to her workshop and kissed her gently. 

"Thank you, Gen, really." He said, and she smiled.

"What for?" She asked, brushing his hair. He smiled back.

"Thank you for making me brave." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave kudos and comments, they fuel me 😁


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